The Haunting of James Wilson
by pgrabia
Summary: When House suspects Wilson is schizophrenic an unlikely ally proves him wrong.  Written for Halloween Challenge @ Sick!Wilson comm @ LJ. Supernatural/AU, H/W pre-slash/slash.  Be advised: Coarse language, gory violence, frightening content.


**Title: The Haunting of James Wilson**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing(s):** G. House, J. Wilson, Amber Volakis, D. Nolan, Dr. Beasley, Sam Carr, OMC; House/Wilson pre-slash/slash.

**Genre:** Angst, Romance, Sick!Wilson.

**Word Count:** 8476

**A/N & Warnings:** Written for the Sick Wilson Halloween Challenge at LJ. Cross-posted at my journals at DW and LJ, House_Wilson at LJ and .

**Rating: T (PG-13)** for coarse language, adult concepts, violence and gory elements.

House looked through the glass at the younger man sitting cross-legged on the floor of the barren room. He'd sat like that, motionless, staring blankly at nothing, for hours now. Of course, how could he move wearing a straitjacket?

"Take that Goddamned thing off of him. He's not dangerous!"

The pretty blonde smoothed a wrinkle out of her spotless white lab coat. She looked up at him and smiled compassionately. "He tried to strangle his fiancée to death and nearly succeeded. He claimed his dead girlfriend told him to do it. You don't call that dangerous, Greg?"

He glanced away from the window to look at her. He knew that Dr. Beasley was only trying to help. It was difficult for him to accept the diagnosis—even if he'd suggested it himself: Paranoid Schizophrenia, late on-set. Just like his younger brother. Life fucking sucked.

"He said that Amber told him Samantha was slowly poisoning him to death," Beasley continued, "but Amber's dead."

House knew that all too well. He didn't need to be reminded. "Sam _was _slowly poisoning him."

The psychiatrist nodded, looking through the small ten-by-ten inch pane of wire reinforced safety glass. "But we both know there was no way that Amber was the one who told him. Ghosts don't exist."

Wilson remained perfectly still, his face a mask of dejection. House felt like a traitor.

"When do I get a chance to speak to him?"

"Dr. Nolan wants to talk to you first, in his office," she answered, hugging her clipboard and walking away.

Nolan smiled at the diagnostician and gestured to a chair before his desk. "Greg, good to see you. Have a seat."

House found it unnerving to be back in that office again. He'd thought that when he'd stormed out the last time he'd never be back. Yet here he was, not quite six months later. He reluctantly sat down, glowering at the senior psychiatrist.

"You're looking good," Nolan told him. "How are you?"

"I'm not here for a therapy session, Nolan," House said coldly. "I was told I had to speak with you before I could talk to Wilson."

The senior psychiatrist nodded his smile fading. His eyebrows knit together. "I need to know where you're at before I can authorize you to visit with him."

"Why?"

He sighed. "Because he's in a very delicate state. He's said some things about you since coming here that I think have had a big impact on him lately. I'd like to talk to you about them."

House arched an eyebrow. He hadn't been expecting this. What did Wilson say?

"You'll be violating his HIPAA rights."

"You're his medical proxy as well as his best friend. He's been declared _non compos mentis_," Nolan reminded him. "Likewise, I asked him if I could talk to you about him. He agreed. While not legally binding, combined with the other factors I don't believe I will be in violation."

It made sense. Wilson's parents had been at the hearing in front of the judge when Wilson's defense lawyer managed to convince the D.A.'s office to drop charges by stipulating that Wilson did indeed try to strangle Sam (there had been over a hundred witnesses) but when he did Wilson was not responsible due to insanity and was not mentally competent to stand trial. Two top psychiatrists were prepared to testify to the fact. The judge had agreed.

After that House hadn't heard a word from the Wilsons and they wouldn't answer his phone calls. Just as with Danny, James apparently ceased to exist anymore in their world. Sam was in jail awaiting arraignment on charges of attempted murder. Wilson's blood tests and tox screen came up positive for dangerous levels of thallium. In Wilson's psychotic ranting he'd claimed that Amber's ghost had told him that Sam was poisoning him through his vitamin supplement. It had turned out to be true. That didn't change the fact that he'd been hallucinating, exhibiting paranoid delusions, isolating himself for weeks, and suffering from mood swings and personality changes.

House had nearly died when Wilson had been led away from the courtroom in restraints. He'd looked at the older man with large, terrified, tear-filled eyes and had yelled, "Why don't you believe me, House? Don't do this to me, please! Please, I love you! Don't commit me!"

Those words had awakened House every night since.

"What do you want to know?" he surrendered with a sigh.

"When I saw you last you were very upset, angry. Wilson had kicked you out in favor of Sam, Cuddy was moving in with Lucas. Alvie had come and gone and you were frustrated that no matter how hard you'd tried to get there, you weren't happy and were giving up on therapy," Nolan reminded him. "What has happened since?"

"It would take hours to tell you," House said simply, not wanting to talk about it all.

"I don't need details," Nolan told him. "Just give me a summary."

House took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Cuddy, a couple of other doctors and I went to the site of the crane disaster in May. I was working triage; Cuddy was organizing the medical personnel on hand. I'd been on a break when I heard clanging from the parking garage underground which had collapsed along with the building. I was stupid and began to crawl down a small opening to where the noise was coming from. There was a woman down there named Hannah who had her leg pinned under tons of rubble. For some reason she trusted me. Cuddy and the head of the rescue teams wanted to amputate right away; they made up excuses, Cuddy's being the risk of crush syndrome. I voted to wait and try to free her with her leg intact first and that's what Hannah chose. Like I said, she trusted me. Cuddy was furious that I had argued with her in front of witnesses. She told me that she was sick of me and had had enough. She informed me that she was moving on with Lucas, Wilson was moving on with Sam and I was stuck and about to be left behind. This was after I found out that morning that she had gotten engaged the night before.

"Time and attempts to free Hannah ran out and Cuddy and I went underground. I had to tell her that we had to amputate after all. She accepted it. I tried to be as gentle as I knew how with her, with Cuddy watching."

"There went your image," Nolan cut in, smiling slightly. House couldn't help but smirk a little at that.

"I performed the amputation with next to no anesthetic," he went on. "We got her out, met with her husband and I rode along with her on the ambulance. Just minutes away from Princeton-Plainsboro a fat embolism from the amputation killed her. There was nothing I could do. I guess that was my breaking point because I ended up on the floor of my bathroom in my apartment with Vicodin in my hand which I intended on taking. I was all alone. I figured, why the fuck stay sober when it had only landed me there."

"So you relapsed?" Nolan asked, his tone remaining even.

House shook his head. "Just as I was about to Cuddy—Lisa—showed up in my bathroom. She'd dumped Lucas because no matter how hard she'd tried not to be, she was in love with me. We started dating. The bad days outnumbered the good just as I warned Lisa they would. Subconsciously we had decided to pretend that everything was good and to enjoy it while it lasted.

"Wilson seemed to be happy with Sam, and I even found myself warming to her. She seemed to have changed and had even convinced me that she loved him. With the both of us in relationships we stopped having the time to hang out, just him and me. We saw each other at work, but if I wasn't having lunch with Lisa, he was with Sam. I popped into his office now and again for advice when it looked like Lisa and I were about to crash and burn but after a while he got tired of being our cheerleader. In fact, one day a couple of weeks before…the event… he yelled at me telling me that if Lisa and I couldn't solve our problems without him then we should just break up." That's when Wilson began to crash."

"When his symptoms became too obvious to hide?" the psychiatrist asked, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his desk.

House nodded. He sighed. "He started withdrawing from everyone, becoming moody and depressed, hiding in his office, avoiding meetings, snapping at anyone in his path. I caught him in the men's room talking to someone in one of the stalls, but there was no one else there. I tried to get him to agree to allow me to examine him but he refused. Finally he told me that Amber's ghost had come to warn him that someone was trying to kill him. He said he was being watched and that the security cameras had been taken over by his would-be killer to keep track of him at work. Amber was supposedly helping him find out whom."

"Why didn't you act then?" Nolan asked in dismay. "He should have been hospitalized for psychiatric assessment as soon as he told you those things. You knew that his brother was schizophrenic!"

Looking at some point in the space between Nolan and him, House nodded slowly. "I couldn't. He trusted me enough to tell me. I didn't want to accept…the truth: that I was losing my…my best friend to something I couldn't fight or cure. I thought that maybe there was something to what he was saying, that maybe there _was _someone trying to poison him and it was the poison causing his hallucinations and paranoid delusions, so I tried to investigate but Wilson refused to give a blood sample and then disappeared."

The psychiatrist opened a file folder in front of him and glanced at a piece of paper inside. "It says here that Dr. Carr filed the missing person's report; he remained missing for twelve days before showing up at the Halloween Gala at PPTH, where he attacked Sam, screaming that he had to stop her from killing him. It took five security guards to pry him off of her and subdue him."

"I know," House snapped irritably, "I was _there_. I don't think I'll ever forget a second of it!" He stood up and began to pace, limping heavily. "The hospitalizations, the tests, his violent outbursts, the Thorazine shots, his begging me to help him…." House fell silent for a moment or two then added, "Having to testify at the hearing to determine his mental competency to stand trial for attempted murder—that was not one of the more stellar moments of my life. And then what he told me as they were dragging him out of the courtroom…" He couldn't go on without risking losing his composure in front of Nolan.

"What did he tell you, Greg?"

House stared the psychiatrist in the eye. "How is that relevant to my being able to visit with Wilson today? What the hell is this, anyway—the Inquisition? Are you getting off on my…my—"

"Your pain?" Nolan finished for him. "You know better than that Greg, or at least you should. It's relevant and after you answer my question I'll explain why."

They stared at each other; House just wanted the bullshit over with so he could see Wilson, talk to him, be reminded that he was still alive. "Am I being charged for this?" He asked snidely.

A smile split Nolan's ebony face. "Consider this a freebie."

House exhaled loudly through his mouth. "He asked me why I didn't believe him and begged me for help. Then…he told me that he loved me."

Nolan nodded without satisfaction. He rose from behind his desk and headed for his office door without a word. House assumed he was supposed to follow. They walked down one of the hundreds of corridors in the psychiatric hospital. Wilson had been required to be placed in a long-term care facility; it was either the state institution, a hellhole if House had even seen one, or Mayfield.

"You said you'd explain," House insisted angrily. "Why was it necessary to make me bring that up again?"

Nolan waited until they had passed two staff members before answering quietly. "Wilson has refused to talk about his illness, Sam, or even Amber. The only thing he talks about is you. What he's been saying has been interesting, to say the least. When you're the topic of discussion he's actually lucid."

House didn't know _how_ he should feel about that but he _did feel_ both excited and sad.

"What has he been saying?"

There was no immediate answer. After taking the elevator a couple of floors down, they arrived at the acute care unit. A nurse was waiting for them to collect all of their pocket items, belts, keys and jewelry—anything that could be grabbed by a patient and used as a weapon on visitors, staff or themselves.

Nolan led House towards the access to the meeting lounge just off of the safety room Wilson had been sequestered in. "He's told staff that you are the only person in the world who has ever accepted him for him. You liked him even when he didn't agree with you and you never abandoned him. He believes that you'll come to his rescue now and figure out a way to help him get out of here. But that's not all."

They stopped at a door with a card-lock. Nolan faced House. "He told Dr. Beasley that he was in love with you and that Amber had told him that you were in love with him but you were afraid to say anything out of fear of ruining your friendship. Is that true, Greg?"

"You're taking the word of a hallucination now?" House scoffed—but his heart felt like it had stopped beating.

"That's not an answer," Nolan said, waiting.

Realizing he had to tell him and there was no good reason not to, House replied, "Yes. Lisa…was the consolation prize."

"Tell him," the psychiatrist told him gently. "He needs whatever hope you can give him. He's given up."

Nolan stuck his ID card into the slot and the door unlocked. He led the way into the room with House immediately behind. The door shut behind them with a loud knocking sound as the locks were activated again.

Wilson sat at a long table facing away from them. He was out of the straitjacket but his hands were bound in front of him with a heavy plastic restraint, as were his feet. His hair was tousled and unruly, so different from the perfectly blow-dried and coifed brown hair House was used to. His head hung limply forward and his shoulders were rounded in defeat. It was almost too much for House to bear seeing.

How cruel would it be to finally tell the younger man that he had been in love with him for years now that Wilson may end up in the asylum for the rest of his life and nothing could come of it?

"James," Nolan said in an upbeat way. "You have a visitor."

Wilson shrugged. "If it's not House, I don't care."

"Then you're in luck," House told him.

Wilson turned around slowly in his chair, and upon seeing the diagnostician, grinned from ear to ear. "House—you came!" His eyes looked clear enough, although House knew that he had to be receiving anti-psychotics of one kind or another.

Nolan exchanged a look with House and then left the room, giving them the illusion of privacy. House limped around the table to sit on the opposite side of it from Wilson. He hung his cane on the back of a neighboring chair and sat down.

"Jeez, Wilson, you look like shit! Tell them you need your blow-drier back!"

A grin met the comment. "It would have to battery-operated. No cords of any kind allowed, you know. It's good to see you. I wasn't certain you'd come."

House looked down at his hands. "I had to." He looked up again. "Things aren't same at the hospital without you. I have to buy my own lunch now."

"Yeah, well, sorry about that."

Wilson's smile had faded, but the fondness in his eyes remained. "How are you? You look…really good. How are things with Cuddy?"

House really didn't want to talk about his relationship with Cuddy. He was here for _him_.

"I'm…fine. Cuddy's fine. Everything is fucking fine," House answered sounding frustrated. "I just want things to go back to the way they were, before you started hallucinating and acting paranoid—which, by the way, is a total rip off of my psychosis."

"I'm not hallucinating," Wilson answered stolidly, "though I admit I was getting pretty paranoid."

"Amber's dead, Wilson!"

"Yes, I know, House. I was holding her when it happened."

"Ghosts aren't real!" House added. He wanted to reach across the table and shake the insanity out of the man that he loved more than anyone or anything else.

"Tell that to the hundreds of scientists who have researched paranormal activities using established scientific methods and have come up with astounding results!" Wilson yelled, but the rage wasn't there like before. He was raising his voice in an effort to be heard and believed.

Shaking his head, House exhaled heavily, feeling the burden returning to his tired shoulders. He was a doctor and cured people all the time but his best friend he simply couldn't help and he detested it.

"Maybe it's something I missed," House murmured, searching Wilson's handsome face for clues he'd overlooked. "Maybe the thallium did more permanent damage than I thought. It may have thrown out the balance of certain neurotransmitters, altered synaptic reuptake sites. That wouldn't show up on an MRI…"

"House," Wilson said softly, his chocolate brown eyes glistening, "when are you ever going to believe me?"

He wanted to, desperately. He would give anything to be able to believe that ghosts existed and that his friend wasn't psychotic, but House couldn't. He simply couldn't believe in something he couldn't measure and explain scientifically. Ghosts fell into the same category as God in his mind.

"House?"

"Prove it to me," the diagnostician told the former-oncologist. "Tell Amber to prove it to me but not _only_ to me; to others as well, so I'm not accused of lying for your sake or having gone around the bend again myself. It's the only way, Wilson, that you can get your life back without admitting to your illness and cooperating with therapy."

Wilson frowned, worried. "I don't know if she will, or even if she can…but I'll ask her the next opportunity I get. I haven't seen her much in the last couple of days."

Because of the meds, House thought, but didn't repeat it out loud. "Just tell her to prove it to people that count. One of the janitors at Plainsboro won't cut it."

A nod was the response. The younger man looked deflated as if he despaired of House ever believing in him again. "You didn't tell me how you and Cuddy are doing," he pointed out.

House was grateful for the subject change, even if it _was_ about his relationship. He rubbed his face with a hand. "I think it's over," he admitted quietly, avoiding Wilson's gaze. "It was nothing specific that occurred, just months of pretending and lying to keep things together that built up to toxic levels. She actually took a couple of weeks' vacation; she and Rachel went to visit her sister. I wasn't invited. She dropped off a box of items I'd left at her place over the months at my apartment before heading to the airport."

"When did this happen?" Wilson asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"Two days ago," House admitted with a half-shrug. "It wasn't unexpected. Actually, I think I'm more relieved than anything. I had expected our break up to be angry and messy; this was better. Hey, I know that look—don't be an idiot! This had absolutely nothing to do with you. In fact I think Cuddy was going to do this sooner but your hospitalization led her to wait a little longer out of pity for me. So quit the fucking martyr act."

Wilson remained quiet, pensive. It lasted almost a minute, leaving them in an uncomfortable silence. When he did speak again he said, "The myalgias from the thallium are gone. So is the arthralgia. I can actually taste what I eat and use my fingers to right legibly again."

House couldn't help but chuckle, breaking the tension in the room somewhat. His index finger traced along the edge of the table top absently. "You've _never_ written legibly, Wilson."

The younger man chuckled as well. "Then I guess heavy metal poisoning may be a treatment for poor penmanship," he replied.

Both men looked up and over at the exit as the lock clicked its release and the door opened. A nurse poked her head in. "Time's up, gentlemen."

House's disappointment was reflected in Wilson's face. He glowered at the intruder but obediently rose to his feet, grabbed his cane, and rounded the table to stand next to Wilson. He looked at his best friend, a lump forming in his throat which he couldn't seem to swallow down.

"Don't forget to tell her," House murmured, placing a gentle hand on Wilson's shoulder and squeezing lightly. What he really wanted to do was to pull him into an embrace but refrained, knowing that they were being watched and such an action might embarrass him.

Wilson nodded. "I will. Will you visit me…again?"

His heart felt like it was being torn in half; the diagnostician nodded. "Whenever you want me to. I'll be back on Saturday during regular visiting hours." Blue eyes met brown for what seemed to be an eternity but which was actually a few seconds before House threw caution to the wind and leaned down to wrap his arms around the younger man, holding him close. He felt Wilson sigh almost contentedly and bury his face into the crook of his neck. House allowed his head to rest lightly on Wilson's and closed his eyes to savor the moment.

"I love you, Wilson," he whispered into the other man's ear.

"I love you too, House."

House nodded, then reluctantly released his embrace and rose to his full height. He gave Wilson one last longing look before walking past the nurse and out of the room.

He watched House leave and felt his heart drop.

"I'll be right back to get you, James," Nurse Angie told him with a pleasant smile. "I have to escort Dr. House out first."

Wilson didn't even acknowledge her existence, turning away from her. He heard the door shut and the lock reengage. He looked up from his bound hands resting on the table top. Amber remained in the seat next to the one House had used. She appeared wistful.

"Will you do it?" he asked her plaintively.

For a long moment she didn't reply, then, "If I do it has to be done my way, James—on _my _terms."

He nodded in understanding but added, "But we agree—no harm is done to House."

Amber rose from her seat and moved to kneel next to Wilson's chair. He could smell her perfume, feel the air move as she disturbed it with her motion. Her golden hair flowed across her shoulders like a halo.

"If I do this, I won't be able to come back again, whether or not it succeeds," she warned him solemnly.

"I know," Wilson whispered; his eyes stung. "I love you, but our time is over."

"House," she said simply. He nodded, relieved when she gave him a little smile. She stood up and sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulders. "Okay, but you had better not chicken out again. I won't be back to save you from another bitch."

He grinned. "I won't. I promise. Good-bye Amber and thank you."

Amber smiled fondly in return. "Good-bye, James."

She faded away.

House didn't make it out of the hospital until nine-thirty. He and his team had been at it for thirty-five hours trying to diagnose a five year old who had nearly died twice before they discovered that she suffered from metastatic multiple myeloma that had been dormant and hiding until she had a anaphylactic reaction to the presence of apricot oil in her aunt's bubble bath six months before. He was exhausted, his leg ached, and all he wanted was to go home, take some ibuprofen, have a hot bath and then go to bed. It was Friday night and once upon a time before Sam and Lisa he and the younger man would sit in front of the TV in their loft, eating take-out, drinking beer, and watching movies until they both were a little (or a lot) drunk and headed to their separate rooms to pass out for the night. As House mounted his motorcycle and pulled his helmet over his head he could help buy yearn for those days again. Days where he and Wilson had been at their most intimate, when House was as close to happy as he'd ever been.

It was a reminder that good things never lasted.

He started the bike, revved the engine a couple of times, and tried to put every thought out of his head, determined to allow this ride take him to a state where he had no worries and no pain. Speed was the closest thing to Vicodin he had anymore. Tomorrow he returned to Mayfield to visit Wilson again. Tonight there was no one but him and the wind.

He sped out of the nearly empty hospital parking lot.

It had been a long day for Darryl Nolan. One of his patients had attempted suicide and two more had come down with a mystery rash and fever. He'd been dealing with the upset families of the patients, placating the local health board inspector, and finishing off the necessary paperwork to have them transferred to a local hospital for care. It was late, he was tired. He walked across the parking lot towards his car. The area was usually better lit but two of the streetlamps—coincidently those closest to _his_ parking stall—were burnt out making the cool and breezy evening seem almost ominous. There was a feeling in the air that reminded him of being a child sitting in front of a fire and telling ghost stories and urban legends.

He pressed a button on his key fob, waiting for his door to unlock but it didn't. He pressed again but again nothing happened. Obviously the battery in the small remote had died and would have to be replaced. He sighed. Upon reaching his car he stuck his key into the lock to open the door the old fashioned way. The key wouldn't turn. He pulled the key out and looked at it with frowning eyes. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it and the keyhole didn't look like it had been disturbed either. He tried it again. Again it wouldn't work. He scoffed at how ridiculous it was and tried the passenger side door, also to no avail.

Cursing softly he pulled out his cell phone and tried to make a call but it wouldn't turn on. What the hell? With an angry snort he turned around and returned to the building. He slid his card in the slot but the door did not unlock no matter how many times he tried. The hairs on the back of his neck rose; his anxiety built. He turned around again and saw a woman leaning against the back bumper of his car, facing him.

Nolan approached her but stopped a few feet away. She was pretty, thirtyish perhaps with flowing blonde hair, a curvy figure, and wearing a white turtle neck and grey slacks but no shoes; that struck him as strange, considering it was quite cool out. A smile crossed her pretty face.

"Locked out?" she asked him. There was something about her that gave him the shivers. Nolan chastised himself for being foolish.

"Of everything," he agreed. "My car doors won't unlock, my cell phone is dead and my ID pass won't work in the door of the building."

Her smile turned a little colder. It was then that Nolan noticed that there was no spark of life in her eyes. They looked like the glass ones used in taxidermy.

"You have bad luck," she told him. "I'll give you a ride, Dr. Nolan."

He frowned, his anxiety building. There didn't appear to be another vehicle nearby. How did she know who he was? Was she a new staff member he hadn't met yet?

"B-But you don't have a car," he noted, unable to hide his fear.

"That's alright. Where we're going you don't need one."

The woman stood up from the car and began to slowly walk towards him. He tried to take a step back but felt himself unable to move, as if his feet were cemented to the ground. As she neared he could see just how translucent her skin was, how pale and grey. Her eyes were dull and…dead. She smiled and a toothless maw opened releasing a stench of death so strong that he nearly vomited. She came within a foot of him and there was no doubt in his terror-stricken mind that she was decomposing right in front of his eyes.

"Wh-who are you?" he was barely able to ask.

A beetle crawled out of her mouth as she opened it to say, "I'm Amber."

Nolan screamed as two bony hands grabbed at him and sucked him into a whirlpool of nothingness.

Judge Weaver started out of his sleep when he heard what sounded like hammering nearby. He opened his eyes to find that he'd dozed off watching TV but now the TV was off and he was alone in his study. The only light came from an accent lamp across the room. He shivered. It was unusually cold in his house and he wondered if the pilot light of the furnace had gone out again.

The pounding sounded again; three solid strikes of something wooden against a hard surface. It sounded eerily familiar.

"It should," a female voice answered his thought from behind. It was neither his wife's nor his daughter's voice. He turned his body to look over the back of the sofa he sat on. A blonde stood behind him, wearing a long, flowing black robe and holding a gavel—his gavel—in her hand. She banged the console table right next to him with it, leaving more impressions on the antique maple.

Jumping off the sofa in surprise Weaver backed away until his legs hit the coffee table behind him. He nearly felt backwards over it. "Who the hell are you and how did you get into my home?"

She smiled thinly; her cold pale eyes bore right through him. The temperature of the room seemed to lower even more until he saw his breath and began to shiver. He was nervous but told himself that she didn't appear to have a weapon—other than the gavel, that is—and he could easily subdue her if he had to.

"My name is Amber," she told him, striking the palm of her hand with the gavel. "James's lawyer thought he was doing him a favor having James declared non compos mentis and you went along. Well, he's not crazy. There's nothing wrong with his head, but there will be with yours."

Snorting derisively Weaver spat at her, "I don't know who you are but you can just go to—"

"Hell?" she finished for him. Her pale eyes darkened, turning the color of pitch. "I've already been. It's not all that it's cracked up to be."

Before he could react she flew at him with lightning speed; the last thing he saw was his gavel being brought down toward his head.

The turn key walked past the row of cells in the county jail.

"Lights out in five minutes," he told the occupants of each cell as passed by. The one at the end had the pain in the neck bitch doctor still waiting for someone to show up and bail her out. Apparently her father was flying in and would be by in the morning to pay the bond and get her ass out of there.

All of the guards couldn't wait. The food wasn't good enough, the mattress was too thin, and the blanket was too scratchy. It was jail, for Pete's sake, not the fucking Waldorf Astoria! He arrived at her cell and looked in. Sam Carr sat cross-legged on her bunk, reading a magazine she'd been given by one of the other guards.

"Lights out, Princess," he told her, smiling mockingly. She was a good looking woman, he had to admit. "So you're a doctor?" the guard commented more than asked.

Sam lifted her eyes to look at him over the magazine. "Yes," she answered coldly.

"You tried to off your fiancé?" he asked her, scratching his head. "Ain't that against the Hippocratus oath you doctors have to take?"

She set the magazine down, regarding him with disdain. "That's the _Hippocratic_ Oath, you idiot. And I didn't do anything to my fiancé. He's crazy and so is his best friend. Now go away and do whatever it is that you get paid for."

The guard frowned. He didn't like being talked down to by stuck-up rich bitches like her.

"Lights out," he told her. She returned his scowl with one of her own and reached behind her to turn off the reading lamp on the wall.

Satisfied that she'd been put in her place he returned to the guard room and flicked a switch that cut power to the overhead lights in the corridor and the cell block went dark except for the footlights along the base of the wall. He sat down behind the desk, glancing at the CCTV monitors that displayed the cells from different angles. Pulling out a pocket TV he tuned in to the last of the game. It was going to be a long, boring night.

It was halfway through the third period and the Devils were up three-nothing when the sound of some kind of bird of prey crossed with a lion screeched with an ear-drum rupturing howl that turned the guard's blood cold. Never had he ever heard anything like that in his life. He dropped the TV onto the desk and looked up at the video screens. The one displaying a long-shot view of the doctor's cell displayed what looked like the blinding flashes of a thousand cameras coming from within. There was a blood curdling scream from Sam and then it all went dark. Other prisoners began to yell and scream in panic, curiosity or mischief. Turning on the overhead lights in the cell block he pulled his gun out of its holster and released the safety as he ran toward the end cell.

He stopped short in front of it and dropped his gun onto the floor. The contents of his stomach came up and out of him.

The cell looked as if it was carpeted red. On the wall, scrawled in blood, were the words: NOT CRAZY.

It always felt like he was flying when he rode the open highway, opening the throttle and allowing the Bike to take control. He could no longer run or ski or ride a bicycle thanks to the infarction but House could still go fast when he wanted. It was the closest thing to feeling free that he knew he would ever get. Speed was his high and his motorcycle was his Vicodin.

When he saw the flashing of red lights up ahead in the distance he cursed his luck. Some idiot had run into another idiot or rolled his vehicle off of the road and now House would have to slow down, just when he was nearing what he called the cripple's version of Nirvana.

As he neared he realized that whatever it was, it was definitely not an accident. Cars were backed up quite a distance on both sides of the highway. There had to have been at least ten police cars, three ambulances and a fire truck or two on hand. He hadn't seen that many service vehicles in one place since the disaster in Trenton. House slowed to a crawl and wove his bike around and between cars that were at a standstill until he reached a barricade made up of police cars. They were empty but he could hear a number of voices jabbering beyond. A giant advertising sign rising from the center median some fifty plus feet straight up appeared to be the focus of all of the attention. Huge spotlights were aimed at the message board on the other side.

House was nothing if not curious. He stopped his bike and parked. Taking off his helmet he hung it over the handle bars, dismounted and then grabbed his cane from where it was clipped to the Honda. He limped forward, squeezing between the patrol cars and headed toward the center of the action where he could see what all of the commotion was about. A couple of cops tried to stop him but relented when he told them he was a doctor and showed them his ID. There didn't seem to be a lot of rescuing taking place, though. All eyes seemed to be glued in shock and awe at the sign.

Once House was on the other side he looked up and inhaled sharply, looking away in horror.

"What the fuck!" he cried out involuntarily, terrified and sickened beyond all reason. He had witnessed all manner of horror and gore in his career, but never had he seen anything like this and it stripped away his façade of control. He turned around and vomited, continuing to heave long after his stomach was emptied. Once it settled down House wiped his mouth with his sleeve and cautiously looked up again.

The last ad had been removed and the next one had yet to be put up, leaving a blank white palette. Hanging from the center of three spotlights suspended on arms over the top of the board was a hangman's noose and hanging from it was a corpse, still dripping blood and twisting in the wind. On the narrow scaffolding that followed the bottom edge of the sign were two men sitting looking dazed. House immediately recognized then two men; he was struck dumb. Nolan was on the left, the judge from Wilson's hearing was on the right. There were firemen climbing up to the scaffold to rescue the men. The body hanging from the spotlight looked like it had been half devoured but the face remained. It was Sam. Painted in blood in block letters on the white surface below her body was the message: BOO! AMBER VOLAKIS WAS HERE. 11/26/10.

It was too horrific for House to even comprehend. He staggered backward a few feet before he collapsed to his knees. His shocked brain barely registered the pain from his ruined thigh. Tears flowed down his cheeks unabated; he wasn't even aware of them. Who would be sick enough to do this and why?

"Wh-who?" he whispered. "H-How—_why_?"

Immediately the wind seemed to disappear around House even though it remained for everyone else around him and nobody else seemed to notice. His skin tingled as if a lightning strike was imminent but there was no storm.

"Who?" Amber echoed, appearing out of nowhere in front of him. Her hands and mouth were dripping with blood. "Well me of course. How? It's a trade secret I'm afraid but I can assure you people are just dying to find out." She grinned at her own joke but then frowned in disappointment when House didn't laugh. "Why? Because I can…and I want to make it clear that James doesn't belong in that asylum. If he's been hallucinating that I exist, well then, now so are you. It's highly unusual for two people to hallucinate the same thing, don't you think? Much less four people." She nodded up at Nolan and Weaver. "Witnesses. James will need them."

"Did you hurt them too?" House managed to croak out. He trembled from head to toe. There was no longer any doubt in his mind as to Wilson's sanity.

She sighed ruefully, a counterfeit sound. "No. They're just in a state of post-traumatic shock. It's not every day you meet a ghost, Greg. By the way, I want you to know that I was flattered when you actually hallucinated seeing me when you flipped your wig. I didn't know you cared."

"I don't," he told her coldly, his fear slowly dissipating but remaining cautious. "Is it my turn now?" He forced himself to continue staring into her lifeless eyes instead of looking up at what remained of Sam's body.

"No," she told him shaking her head. "James asked me not to hurt you. He's in love with you, House."

"I know," House answered. He was standing in front of the ghost of Cutthroat Bitch, below one of the most gruesome tableaus he had ever seen in his life, and he was opening his soul to her; it was a new definition for the word insanity. "I love him, too."

She nodded. "That's why I'm leaving you alone. You may not have believed him until now—but you wanted to. I have to leave now…and I'm never coming back. It's up to you to take care of him now."

He knew that; he had always known. Even if he wanted to, he could never leave Wilson unprotected—never.

"This will horrify him," House pointed out to her, able to feel anger again. "He'll feel responsible for Sam's death for the rest of his life."

"Then you'll have to take care of that, won't you," she told him snottily.

"You didn't have to kill Sam," the diagnostician insisted. He'd hated her but not to the point of wanting her dead.

"Maybe not," she agreed, fading away into the darkness, "but it was fun."

The wind returned with her departure. House glanced around. Not a single person there had seen him talking to her. Feeling hollow and much, much older than his fifty-one years, House found his cane and limped back to his bike unnoticed.

As he rode home via another route he was able to relax somewhat, and cry.

A little over a month later House's car was parked in the loading zone behind the kitchen of Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, sheltered from the view of the press and paparazzi waiting outside the front doors. The diagnostician was inside, sitting on the edge of his best friend's bed, smiling mildly. Wilson was packing his last shirt into the small suitcase House had brought up for him. House stood up stiffly, wincing a little from the pain. The cold December weather had wreaked havoc on his leg for weeks and the only cure for that was remaining indoors in the warmth, cuddling up with Wilson and sharing the occasional hot bath with him. He smiled at that thought.

"Brown is excited that you'll be back in the New Year," House informed Wilson. "He's hated every moment of running the department in your absence."

"Well, that's good," Wilson acknowledged with a weak smile, "or else I wouldn't have a job to go back to."

"Cuddy would have found you something," House assured him. "She's almost as eager as I am to see you back at work. That may change after she finds out about us but I don't give a shit. She was the one who gave up on our relationship first. Eating lunch alone on my own dime, by the way, totally sucked."

"As long as you're glad I'm back I guess it doesn't really matter why," was the younger man's comment, otherwise ignoring House's complaint about paying for his own food. "I have to admit…I'm a little afraid to go back. Everybody at the hospital and most of my patients, I'm sure, thought I was crazy."

"We were wrong," House told him. "Amber took care of proving that." After they recovered from that terrifying experience both Nolan and Weaver testified to what she'd done to them. It was a nice touch when she appeared in front of the cameras at the police press release. Pictures and live video-streaming don't lie."

Wilson nodded, looking saddened. "Poor Sam…"

"Poor Sam? She tried to kill you! You were an idiot to change your will like that. Quit blaming yourself for her death; it wasn't your fault Wilson," House told him for what must have been the thousandth time since the oncologist had found out about Sam's death. He helped his friend into his warm coat and handed him his wool muffler.

"Thanks. I know it's not my fault," the younger man told the older. "I was here drugged to the gills for the night when she butchered Sam, but she did that for _me_."

House didn't say anything right away. It was hard enough for him to accept the fact that Amber's ghost actually existed. He had no way to explain her reasoning.

"She killed Sam for _herself_, Wilson," he told him after a few moments. "She manifested in front of all of those witnesses for _you_. By the way, the phone has been ringing off the hook with parapsychologists, paranormal researchers, writers, television producers, the press, and a slew of religious nuts wanting to have five minutes of your time. The producers of _Dateline_ called this morning. The fuckers woke me up at five-thirty in the morning. Idiots!"

Wilson picked up his suitcase, took a quick look around to make certain he wasn't leaving anything behind. Seeing nothing he led the way out of the room with House in tow. "I'm not interested in being on television or doing interviews with anyone else for that matter," he informed the older man. "I just want everything to settle down so I can go back to my life and put all of this behind me. By the way, are you all moved in yet?"

Nodding, House answered, "Everything but my furniture and piano. Those will be staying back at Baker Street."

"No," Wilson objected, shaking his head. "I'm serious about changing the spare bedroom into a multimedia center and opening up space in the living room for the baby grand."

"You want _both_ the piano _and_ the organ in the living room?" House asked doubtfully. They reached the registration desk where Wilson had paperwork to sign before he could be formally discharged.

"Why not?" Wilson answered. "There is classic beauty in musical instruments like those."

House shook his head at them in dismay. "Do you know how gay you sounded just now? And now you've got _me _talking about living space and furniture. You're a bad influence on me."

"House, we are two men who are going to be living and having sex with each other," the younger man pointed out as a nurse handed him several forms to sign.

"Lots and lots of sex," the diagnostician reminded him with an eager smile. "Don't forget that."

"Don't worry, I won't," Wilson told him, smirking. "As I was saying, those two things alone qualify us as gay."

"Speak for yourself. I don't believe in labels," House corrected him.

"Whatever," Wilson sighed, shaking his head. He finished signing the last page. The receptionist took it from him with a smile.

"You are now free to leave, Dr. Wilson," she told him with a warm smile. "I wish you the very best of luck. Don't forget to take the back exit—the front is swarming with reporters and photographers."

House rolled his eyes when Wilson gave her a winning smile in return. "Thank you. Good-bye."

"Let's go, Romeo," House told him and then glared at the receptionist. "Back off, sister. He's already spoken for!"

House wrapped a possessive arm around Wilson's shoulders and guided the younger man down the corridor that led towards the appropriate way out of the building.

"Was that necessary?" he asked the diagnostician, his eyebrows knitting together.

"You keep flirting like that and it is," House told him jealously. "You know how much I hate to share." He peered out a small window in the back door. The coast appeared to be clear since the employee lot was secured by a tall wall and a gate so the intrusive busy-bodies couldn't get in to swarm them. They went out the door and walked to House's car nearby.

At the car Wilson put the suitcase into the rear seat and was about to climb into the front passenger seat when House stopped him; he drew him up into an embrace and kissed him passionately. Wilson eagerly returned it, wrapping his arms around House's waist. The older man grinned at that. He had waited a long time to be able to do this with his best friend so now that he could it seemed unreal that it was finally happening.

Wilson drew away, smiling at him. "I love you. I have no intentions of messing this up."

House nodded earnestly. "Me, neither. Now let's get our asses home and get _busy_."

"Lead the way," came the response the diagnostician had been waiting for. They climbed into House's car and drove for home.

_**~fin~**_


End file.
